That night, Ramlal locked his door twice. It had been years since he had done that. Not since the previous instance.
Inside his home, the air was heavy and strained. Their breath appeared to be held even by the wooden walls. The tea had gone cold in the cup, but he poured himself another. As he raised it, his hands shook a little.
The wind howled like a wounded beast outside. Trees moaned. Like a loose gate swinging in protest, something metallic clanged repeatedly. For the hamlet, it was just another stormy night, but Ramlal knew differently. There was a change.
He perched on the edge of the mattress and ignited the lantern next to his bed. His ears perked up at every creak of the wooden floor outside.For the hamlet, it was just another stormy night, but Ramlal knew differently. There was a change.
He perched on the edge of the mattress and ignited the lantern next to his bed. His ears perked up at every creak of the wooden floor outside. The tightness in his chest tightened with each distant dog's whimper.
Then he heard it shortly after midnight.
A thump.
A pause.
Drag, thump, thump.
Although it wasn't loud, the sound was audible.
Steps.
Not your typical footsteps, though. They were uneven, heavy, and slow, as if they were being pulled along. Ramlal's throat tightened with breath. Silently, he rose and moved approached the window. The old frame's airflow caused the curtain to dance gently.
Gently, he opened it and peered into the darkness.
He noticed nothing at first.
Then he noticed it through the shifting shadows and the swaying trees.
A number.
Tall, slender, and motionless.
It faced the house and stood at the edge of the field. It had a distinct form. A straw hat with a wide brim. Shoulders slumped. Arms extended a little.
The scarecrow.
Ramlal's gaze expanded. He rubbed them once and blinked quickly.
No. It isn't possible.
He had left it securely fastened to a bamboo pole in the middle of the field. However, it was now standing at the crop line's edge.
Gazing.
He staggered out of the window. He could hear his heart thumping so loudly in his chest. He reached for the lantern, but it died after furiously flickering. The room fell into darkness.
The scarecrow had returned to its customary location in the middle of the field. firmly bound. The head was bent. Hat in position.
However, the surrounding soil had been disturbed.
footprints.
Large, distinct footprints made a broad arc around the scarecrow before coming to a stop right in front of it.
Then disappeared.
No other markings were present. No path to enter or exit. There is only that one set of steps—and one more thing.
Something new was tied to the scarecrow's wrist.
A thread that is red.